


Looking For Band

by solikethesea



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Breaking Up & Making Up, Craigslist, Gift Fic, High School, M/M, Not My Fault, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6404542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solikethesea/pseuds/solikethesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe shows Patrick an online listing of some weirdo looking for people to play in their band:</p><p><strong>Looking For Band (Wilmette)</strong><br/>looking for someone 2 play songs w me stat. i can play bass. need someone for drums, vocals, and guitar. will pay once we r rich and famous<br/>• do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers</p><p>and then Patrick meets some people, joins a band, quits the band, lands himself a brand new crush, spends a few weeks in denial, gets over himself, gets with the crush, and gets cake. Not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking For Band

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dontbesillywefall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dontbesillywefall/gifts).



> happy birthday furyal!! this thing was a pain in the ass to write but also fun so i hope you enjoy. B)
> 
> minorly coauthored by [dontbesillywefall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dontbesillywefall), enough to warrant a mention but since she made me FINISH THIS GODDAMN MESS im taking all the Official Authorly Credit.
> 
> (also i maintain that this is Still Your Fault. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )

Patrick wakes up to Joe yanking him out of bed by his arm.

“Dude get up already, you gotta see this, ” Joe says, dragging him vaguely upwards but mostly sideways.

“Can I at least wake up first?” Patrick mumbles groggily, snatching his arm back from Joe and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Joe ignores him and bounces over to the computer sitting in the corner of Patrick’s room. It's only ten – way too early to be up on a Sunday morning. Patrick is beginning to regret inviting Joe to his house for that Star Wars marathon.

“How long have you been up?” Patrick asks, as he throws off his covers and trudges over to the computer.

“Uhhh, since nine maybe?” he says, and shrugs. “I’m not sure, but I didn’t want to go downstairs without you so I started fucking around on your computer and look at this!”

Patrick stares at the screen, upon which a Craigslist ad is pulled up.

> **Looking For Band (Wilmette)**  
>    
>  looking for someone 2 play songs w me stat. i can play bass. need someone for drums, vocals, and guitar. will pay once we r rich and famous
> 
> • do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers

“This is what dragged me out of bed for?” he exclaims, “A shitty Craigslist ad?”

“Not just _any_ shitty Craigslist ad. A shitty Craigslist ad for a band!”

“… Riiight.” Patrick hopes that his tone and body language convey how unimpressed he is, even though the levels are so through-the-roof he's not even sure that's possible.

“A band,” Joe continues, “In Wilmette!”

Patrick stares at Joe for a few seconds. “I’m not joining a band via Craigslist ad. Besides, what if the dude is some sort of psycho?”

Joe waves the question off. “He’s not a psycho. Probably.”

Patrick sighs and shakes his head. Joe gets really attached to ideas once they get into his brain, and he's probably not going to take no for an answer.

Well, it's still worth a try. “I’m not joining a band you found through a Craigslist ad that doesn’t even use proper spelling or grammar,” he says, and with that, turns to walk out the room; he may as well get some breakfast if he’s up.

* * *

A week later, Joe and Patrick are hanging out at Patrick’s place after school and playing video games, when the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” Joe shouts, dropping his controller and jumping up from the couch.

“Sure,” Patrick mutters, gaze still on the TV.

He’s halfway to beating Joe completely – idiot didn’t even pause the game – when Joe walks back into the room with some short guy in tow.

Patrick pauses the game. “Who’s that?” he asks.

“Who's what?” Joe says. “Oh, this is Pete.”

Pete is wearing a hoodie, but from his bangs falling across his face Patrick can see that his hair is black, and is that eyeliner? On his arm, Patrick sees a tattoo peeking out where his sleeves are pushed up. If he were in the business – or position – to be rating people based on appearance, he’d give this guy a solid seven out of ten.

“Right,” Patrick says flatly. “And who, exactly, is Pete?”

Joe looks sheepish for a moment, but Patrick thinks he must have imagined it. “So you remember that ad I was showing you the other–“

Patrick cuts him off as he stands up and nearly shouts, “What? Are you telling me you–“

“Yeah, dude, calm down, Pete’s cool!”

Patrick looks at Joe like he’s insane. “There is nothing _cool_ about this!”

Joe holds up a hand, and Patrick pauses. “Hey, Pete, you wanna go grab your bass while I deal with Patrick and his asshole temper?”

Pete, who looks pretty uncomfortable by now, which makes Patrick feel kind of bad, but not bad enough to calm down, nods and quickly makes his escape.

“What the shit is this?” Patrick asks, stepping towards Joe. “Did you seriously just invite some random dude from Craigslist to my house? Fucking _seriously?”_

“Chill,” Joe says. “I’ve been chatting with him on MSN, he’s not a creep or a murderer or anything. It’s fine.”

“Sure, that’s what he wants you to think!” Patrick says.

“Okay, seriously, dude,” Joe says. “Calm down. He’s not gonna kill us or something. I just thought it’d be cool, like, he wants to start a band, we want to be in a band, everything works out.”

“Unless he kills us,” Patrick responds mutinously.

“But since we’ve established that that’s not about to happen, just try it, okay? Worst case, he doesn’t like our playing, he leaves, we never see him again, the end.”

“Or he kills us,” Patrick adds.

“...Just shut up,” Joe finally says.

Patrick rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything more.

Pete knocks on the door before re-entering the house. If he’s a murderer, at least he’s polite, Patrick thinks.

“So, have you guys got instruments or what?” Pete asks, looking a little more relaxed than earlier.

“Yeah, in the basement,” Patrick answers. “This way.”

He leads them through the hallway and down the stairs, and if he shoves the door open a little bit harder than necessary, well, nobody says anything.

* * *

“So uh, your friend said you play drums, ” Pete says, leaning his bass against the wall.

“Yeah, I play drums and Joe plays guitar, ” Patrick answers, walking over to his drum set.

“So is that his then?” Pete asks, pointing towards the black guitar case lying on the other side of the room.

“No, that one’s mine. It’s an acoustic. Joe has an electric guitar that he brought from his house,” Patrick responds, thinking about all the ways he was going to kill Joseph Trohman if this guy – Pete – didn’t get to it first.

“You play guitar too?” Pete questions, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Kind of, but I prefer drums,” he says shortly.

“Look, I uh, I thought you knew I was coming, ” Pete stammers out after a few seconds, “I mean, I never would have come if –”

But then Joe bounces down the stairs with his Fender, effectively ending Pete’s awkward apology with an exclamation of, “So let’s get started!”

Patrick eyes him dubiously. Joe just shrugs, and grins. Patrick further solidifies his plans to murder him later.

“So… who wants to go first?” Pete asks.

“How about you?” Patrick says. However he felt about Pete, he wasn’t going to be in a band with someone who had bad music taste. If Pete went first he could at least judge him.

“Sure,” Pete says, sounding a bit startled. “You got an amp I can use?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, “I’ve got an Orange Rockerverb–”

Patrick cut him off, “Aaaaand nobody cares. Great. It’s over there,” he gestures to the corner of the room. Any other time, he’d feel bad about interrupting Joe, but today he’s pissed. Joe totally had it coming. Plus, creepy murderer or not, Pete doesn’t deserve to have to listen to Joe describing – in explicit detail – his love affair with his guitar rig.

While Pete plugs in, Patrick and Joe glare at each other.

They only break eye contact when Pete clears his throat. He’s grabbed one of the stools sitting around and settled his bass on his knee.

His fingers begin flying across the frets and Patrick recognizes the song almost immediately.

“My Sweet Fracture?” he asks, although he already knows the answer.

Pete nods but doesn’t pause his playing. 

Patrick and Joe just stand and watch. When the song is over, Joe says, “Nice playing, dude.”

Patrick nods his assent. Pete grins at them both.

Patrick grabs his chance while he can, and says to Joe, “Hey, you wanna go next?”

Joe looks like he wants to argue, but won’t out of courtesy to the guest. “Sure,” he says.

He unplugs Pete’s bass and carefully sets up his own guitar. Pete and Patrick stand by awkwardly until he’s done, and satisfied with the adjustments to the amp.

Patrick has a couple of guesses as to what Joe will play; he knows he’s been working on a couple of new songs recently, and sure enough, he recognizes the opening chords of Platypus as soon as Joe starts playing.

Patrick sometimes thinks that Joe’s only redeeming quality is his taste in music, which nobody else Patrick knows shares. That, or his insane amount of Star Wars trivia knowledge.

He tuned the song out and observed Pete instead. He had taken off the hood of his black hoodie to reveal – obviously straightened – jet black hair. His sleeves had been pushed up a bit more and Patrick could see an owl tattoo above his left wrist.

Pete was actually about the same height as him, which was surprising considering he was a pretty short guy.

His thoughts are interrupted when Pete wolf-whistles as Joe finishes playing. “That’s some impressive shit, kid,” he says. Joe looks annoyed at being called “kid” but still happy at the compliment.

Then they both turn to Patrick; it’s his turn to face the music – or make it. He mentally runs through his repertoire, and settles on Saves The Day. “Guess the song,” he says to Joe, and grabs his drumsticks and prepares to play.

He nearly loses himself in the beat before he hears Joe call out, “nothing new!” and join in playing. Admittedly, Through Being Cool might not be the most original thing to play right now. But hey, it works.

When the song is done, Patrick feels just a little more bold, and says to Pete, “There’s another amp around here somewhere, see if you can catch onto this next song.” He waits till Pete is plugged in and then starts Holiday.

Joe joins in exactly on cue; for this song, he’d expect nothing less. Pete takes a few moments, but catches on quickly enough.

Playing with guitar is usually nicer than playing alone, except for those (not-so-)rare occasions where one of them is too sleep-deprived to keep up with the other; those times, it quickly turns into torture.

Playing with live guitar and bass, though, is something else entirely. Patrick isn’t sure he believes in heaven, but he thinks that now he understands what it would be like a little bit better. 

All too soon, the song is over. Pete suggests they play Fortress and Patrick is grudgingly impressed at his music taste.

“So,” Pete says, when they’re done. “If this was an audition, you guys definitely passed with flying colors.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, barely holding back the sarcasm desperate to color his tone.

Joe puts his guitar down and shoots them both a thumbs-up. Patrick sets his drumsticks back on the drums and goes to help Pete put his amp and gear away.

Joe finishes cleaning up before the other two; “So what now?” he asks.

“I’ve gotta go now,” Pete says, looking at his watch, “but I’ll message you later.”

Patrick jerks his head up and glares at Joe some more. Joe just gives him that infuriating grin, again, and moves to walk Pete back to the front door.

* * *

The Thursday after the informal “audition”, Patrick is in trigonometry trying not to be bored out of his mind when his phone buzzes with a text.

He looks away from the board and discreetly – at least he hopes it’s discreetly – pulls out his phone. The message is from an unknown number.

_hey i was thinking we could practice @ my place –pete_

Pete? How did Pete even get his number? He texts the question in response, and a few seconds later his phone buzzes again.

_joe_

Joe. Of course. He’s seriously going to kill Joe one of these days.

_ok yeah we can practice at ur place_

He pauses a moment, then adds:

_where is ur place exactly_

When his phone buzzes again, there’s an address along with

_u need hlp bringing ur drums?_

His drums. Yeah, he probably would need some help moving them, but he could get Joe to help him. After all, this was all his idea. 

_no its alrite joe can help me_

Just as the bell rings, his phone buzzes again. 

_cool, i gtg but u + joe can come over 2nite w ur things_

He shoots back a quick ok before gathering his things and rushing to lunch, where he tracks down Trohman.

As he sits down next to Joe with at their cafeteria table he says, “You. You gave my number to Pete.”

“Yeah” Joe says, “you’re going to need to talk to him if you wanna be in a band together.”

“Yeah, but–” he cuts himself off. “Nevermind. Anyway, Pete texted and said he wants us to come over with our instruments tonight.”

“Alright, cool,” Joe says, and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“No, not cool!” Patrick says. Voice rapidly rising in pitch, he continues, “What am I supposed to tell my mom? If she finds out I’m going to some random guy's house, a guy who I met off of fucking _Craigslist,_ she’ll freak!”

Patrick's mother was alright with a lot of things, but he was sure she wouldn’t be okay with this.

“Dude, calm down. I’ll do the talking for you, okay?”

“Fine, ” Patrick huffs, “Oh, and you’re gonna be helping me get my drums over there.”

“Cool,” he says, and goes back to eating his sandwich.

Cool. Cool. _How is Joe always so fucking calm,_ Patrick thinks as he eats his lunch. His mom is never going to let this happen, and there's nothing Joe can say that will convince her.

* * *

At eight o’clock, Joe is helping Patrick load his drums into the back of his van.

“I have no clue how you convinced her,” Patrick says.

“I’m just magic,” Joe says, as he closes the van doors. “Now what was the address?”

When they arrive at Pete’s house, a woman opens the door.

“Oh come in, you must be Pete’s friends,” she says, smiling at them invitingly.

“Hello, Mrs. –” Patrick pauses, realizing he doesn’t even know this guy’s full name.

“Wentz, ” she fills in for him, “but please, call me Dale.”

Just as Patrick is about to ask where Pete is, he bounds into the room.

“Patrick, Joe! You’re here, great,” he says, “Did you bring your things?”

“Yeah, they’re in the van,” Joe replies.

“Great! I’ll open the garage and you guys can set it up in there,” he says. He rushes out of the room, and Patrick wonders how he has so much energy.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it,” Dale says, and leaves the room.

Patrick and Joe walk outside to grab their equipment.

When they finish setting up, Joe claims he’s hungry and leaves to find the kitchen. Pete plops down onto the shabby brown couch sitting in the corner and invites Patrick to sit with him.

In the hour that Joe is gone, Patrick learns a lot about Pete. For one, he learns that Pete’s full name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III. Which is just ridiculous.

“You’re not serious,” Patrick says.

“Of course dude, why would I lie?” Pete exclaims.

“Right but – _the third._ Really?”

“Really,” Pete says.

Patrick also learns that Pete is studying political science at DePaul, and is a year away from graduating. Most importantly though, he learns that Pete likes Bowie, which is good, because he doesn’t think he could be friends with someone who doesn’t like Bowie, let alone be in a band with them.

By the time Joe gets back, Patrick has barely noticed that any time has passed at all.

“Hey man, it’s getting pretty late, we should probably head out,” Joe says, as he walks into the garage.

“Huh? ” Patrick says, turning to look at Joe from his place on the couch, “What time is it?”

“It’s nearly nine.”

“Oh wow, ” Patrick gets up. “Yeah we should probably get going,” he says to Pete.

Pete walks them out, and they agree to meet Saturday evening to practice. Patrick thinks maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Saturday, everything starts to come together. After their first real practice, Patrick feels a little better about the band. _His_ band. Well, they aren’t really a band as much as three kids trying to play songs and not suck, but it’s still pretty cool.

Speaking of their quasi-band, “Hey Pete,” Patrick says, as he slides into a booth at a diner near Pete’s, “has anyone else contacted you about that Craigslist ad?”

“Yeah, but no one who wants to sing,” Pete says, dejectedly.

“Any guitar players?” Joe chimes in.

“A few. None of them can play very well though.”

“Pete, _you_ can’t play well,” Patrick says.

Pete narrows his eyes and stares at him. “Alright, I may not be the best goddamn bassist around, but these guys are worse.”

“Worse? Than you? I didn’t even know that was possible,” Joe snarks.

“You both suck,” Pete whines, “Why did I even let you two into this band?”

Patrick is about to snipe back a response, but the waitress interrupts as she takes their order.

After she’s gone, they go back to talking. The conversation travels from the band’s practice that morning to the latest issue of MRR – "the cover's just _tacky, _I'm telling you, I know these things" – to Joe and Patrick comparing stories from school that week. Pete watches them with amusement before joining in to talk about some of the crazier stunts students and professors have pulled at college.__

"It never gets better, does it?" Patrick asks. "I'm doomed to be surrounded by madness until I die."

Joe just shrugs, a gesture that seems to say, _too bad, you signed up for this._ Pete pauses for a moment, then says, "You get used to it, probably. I wouldn't know, I've been firmly in the crazy camp since day one."

He sounds entirely too serious for what should be a lighthearted conversation. Patrick is taken aback for a moment, wondering what could have prompted that. A silence falls over the table for a moment, and then, thankfully, the waitress returns with their food.

They remain silent until Joe says, "But like, chickens laying eggs is kind of fucked up when you think about it," and Patrick frankly doesn't _want_ to know so he doesn't ask. Instead, he gratefully rejoins the conversation about inane things and pointedly does _not_ ask about Pete's comment.

At ten Patrick realizes that's he's gotta be home, like, thirty minutes ago and splits. Joe and Pete wave him goodbye and continue talking, probably plotting against him. Sure enough, later that evening he gets a text from Joe saying _pete's place tmrw @ 1, bring song ideas._ Because those two aren't content with just _playing_ music and nothing in his life is ever easy. But hey, if they think they can pull it off, who's he to complain?

 _This better make me fckin famous,_ he texts back.

* * *

Patrick is woken at some unholy hour by his phone buzzing on his bedside table. He'd spent what felt like hours tossing and turning before finally falling asleep earlier, so this whole "being awake" thing is pissing him off.

He tries to ignore the buzzing but it just. Doesn't. Stop. Finally he gives up and fumbles the phone open and hits the answer button.

"Who are you and why are you calling me at the literal worst time of night," he says, because this asshole who woke him up can deal with him being a little bit annoyed.

"Agreed," says the mystery caller, and Patrick shoots up because _what the fuck is Pete doing calling him in the middle of the night._

"Not that I don't love you but what the actual fuck, Pete," Patrick finally says, then promptly second-guesses himself. _Was basically saying "I love you" too much? We're friends, right? Do friends do that? Does Pete even consider us friends? Does he even like me?_

In lieu of trying to answer any of those questions, Patrick checks his alarm clock; it's just past two AM, also known as "too fucking early for this bullshit."

"Sorry, is this a bad time?"

Something in Pete's voice makes Patrick pause. On the surface, there's nothing but dry humor, but Patrick has enough experience to know that people don't usually make calls in the middle of the night just to be sarcastic at someone.

"No, it's fine, I'm just... surprised," Patrick says. And even though it's not the whole truth, he's somewhat surprised to find that it is, in fact, true. Why would Pete call him of all people?

"Cool, thanks, that's a relief," Pete says, and Patrick's internal alarm bells go off again. "I wouldn't wanna... bother you or something, that would be shitty. Of me. God, I'm sorry anyways."

Patrick responds immediately with "Don't be. It's fine, I promise. What's up?"

There's a long pause.

"Nothing," Pete says, in a tone of voice that makes it very obvious that it's not nothing. "Bad night, I guess. Was trying to make sense of some things, like, for writing, you know, but if you let the muse out..."

Patrick has no clue what Pete means, but he doesn't say anything.

"So everything I've ever written is shitty, but hey, what else is new?" Pete finishes.

"I don't know, there's gotta be something," Patrick says, desperately digging around for some change of subject. "Are you still at home?"

"Nah, of course not," Pete says, like that was a stupid question. "I'm by the lake. Figure I've only got four, maybe five more hours to sunrise, if I don't find something else to do first."

Jesus. "You should go home. Get some sleep," Patrick says. _If we're going to be working on songs tomorrow I'd rather you not be a sleep-deprived zombie,_ he doesn't say.

"That sounds like a great idea. Not doing that sounds even better," Pete says.

"Well, it's your life, if you wanna fuck it up," Patrick says, then yawns. "Sorry. That was too harsh. I'm just tired. Don't know how you're so awake at this hour."

"And I promise, you don't want to," Pete says with all his usual clarity.

"Right," says Patrick, because he honestly doesn't know what else to say. Pete's a mystery to him, although in less of a "how does his brain work" way than in a "why does it work like that" way. It will never make sense to him how someone like Pete can view himself so unfavorably.

"Well, you might have enough energy to stay up to watch the sunrise, but some of us lesser mortals need to sleep. And you probably should too, but I won't tell you how to live your life," he adds once the silence gets too long and painful.

"Yeah, sure," Pete says, tone slipping lower again.

"Call me if you need to," Patrick says, hoping that the small bit of consolation will help. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow," Pete echoes, and the Patrick hangs up, puts the phone back down, rolls over, and goes back to bed.

* * *

An hour after arriving at Pete's place, Patrick finds himself hunched over next to Pete on his couch trying to make sense of Pete’s "lyrics". They're good, poetic, maybe even romantic if you tilt your head and squint, but they don't make a lot of sense. And he's almost sure he recognizes some of them from Pete's phone call last night. This morning? Whatever.

“Well,” Patrick says, “maybe if you rearranged it. Like this.” He snatches the pen from Pete’s hand and draws some arrows in the margins, rewriting and changing bits and pieces here and there. He can feel Pete watching what him writing and tries to ignore it.

When he's done, he raises his head and hands it to Pete, who reads it over. “This is good,” he says, “Like, wow, now it looks like a song.” He looks up and grins at Patrick.

Patrick ducks his head down and hopes Pete can’t see his blush. “Uh, and I was thinking you could set it to something like this.” He hums a tune that’s been floating around in his head for a while. There's a pause.

“Sing it for me,” Pete says.

Patrick’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Um, I’m not really that good.”

“It’s okay, I wanna know what you think it should sound like,” he says, staring at Patrick with a plaintive expression.

Patrick scans the room. Joe is probably still in the kitchen, stuffing his face with whatever he can find or talking Andy, who, despite saying he doesn't live here, always seems to be around. “Um, alright, ” he says, and hesitantly starts to sing.

Pete looks at him, rapt, as he finishes singing the few lines he has done. Patrick ducks his head down again and tries not to blush.

“Dude. _DUDE._ Who told you you can’t sing?” Pete questions.

Patrick looks at him quizzically, “I did? Like, I’ve listened to myself recorded and stuff and I’m not very good.”

“Are you sure? Because that sounded awesome. I mean, all this time I’ve been looking for a singer, and there was one sitting right in front of me!” Pete yells, jumping up to stand on the couch. “You’ve gotta sing for our band Pattycakes. No one can top you.”

“Okay first, don’t call me that,” Patrick says, “And second, I’m not singing for the band.”

“But your talents can be surpassed by none!” Pete proclaims, dropping down onto the couch again.

“Shut up, I’m not that good, ” Patrick says, swatting his arm, “Besides, you still haven’t had anyone contact you off of your shitty Craigslist ad?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

Patrick stares at him for a while before responding, “Look, I’m not even that good and even if I did agree to sing – which I won’t – you would still need to find another drummer.”

Joe chooses that moment to pull his head out of the fridge and says, “I know a drummer!”

“What?” Patrick and Pete say, turning to stare at him. _For the love of God, Joe, now is NOT the time to suddenly be helpful,_ Patrick thinks.

“Yeah, ” he responds, “Your friend Andy plays drums. You didn’t know?”

“What? When the fuck did you meet Andy? And no,” Pete says, surprised, and mutters, “Asshole never told me he could play.”

“Huh,” Joe shrugs. “The first day we came over, I met him in the kitchen while you two lovebirds were getting to know each other. But Andy can play drums if Patrick sings– ”

“Nope, not necessary, because I’m not singing,” Patrick declares, cutting off Joe. And he doesn't know where to even _start_ with the rest of that statement.

“Why not?” Pete challenges.

“Yeah, why not,” Joe repeats, “You are pretty good, you know.”

“I don’t want to, alright? You’ll find another singer soon who’ll be, like, ten times better than me so it’s not even a problem.”

“But there can’t be anyone better than you Trick,” Pete says, turning towards him. “You’re the best.”

Patrick tries desperately not to blush again, and pulls his hat down on his head, hoping it will cover his face enough to hide it.

"Just, no," he says, and hopes everyone will leave it at that. Joe stays quiet, for once, but Pete doesn't get the memo.

"But why not? You're good, Patrick. Probably the best we could get, especially since no one else seems to be interested," Pete says, and Patrick cuts him off before he can continue.

"No, I get it. I'm a good last resort, better than nobody, but can't you just accept that I don't wanna sing and let me be? Just leave it, Pete."

"I didn't– okay. Yeah, sure," Pete says, turning away from him.

Patrick feels like he's fucked up, somehow, but he's too far on edge to worry about it. _Jesus,_ if this is how he feels about just being _asked_ to sing, it's good that he's cut the idea off before it could go any further.

The tension is the room presses down on him and Patrick turns to find the doorway. "I'm just gonna, leave, okay? Bye," he throws over his shoulder, and walks out.

* * *

It's a nearly an hour's walk back to his own house from Pete's, but Patrick couldn't stand to have to explain why he was leaving to Joe, or, god forbid, his mom. Once he gets home he shuts himself in the basement, alternately listening to music and playing guitar in an effort to rid himself of the weird – _bad_ – feelings left over from the fiasco at Pete's.

He stays there until his mom calls him up for dinner and then returns when it's done. At nine, his phone buzzes with messages from Joe. He doesn't read them. At ten, his mom checks in and tells him to try not to stay up _too_ late, it's not a school night but it wouldn't do to mess up his sleeping schedule over the weekend.

At eleven, his phone buzzes again. This time it's from Pete, and he doesn't _want_ to know what excuses he's going to try to make, but he reads it anyway.

 _Brought ur stuff back,_ it says. A moment later, another message comes through. _Waiting outside._

Patrick may be annoyed at Pete but he's not cruel, so he goes and opens the door for him. "Why didn't you just ring the doorbell?" he asks.

"It's late," Pete shrugs, "I didn't want to wake anyone up."

"Except for me," Patrick says, and almost regrets it. But it's late, he's tired, Pete's been an asshole today, he deserves it.

"Yeah," agrees Pete, face twisted into an expression that Patrick can’t quite recognize. (He thinks it's either a smile or a grimace; he can’t tell which.) "Except for you."

"So," says Patrick, not knowing what else to do to break the awkward silence, "You brought my stuff?"

"Yeah, your drums are in the car," Pete says. "I thought you'd appreciate not having to get them from my house, especially since..."

He trails off, leaving Patrick confused. "Since what?"

Pete looks almost as confused as Patrick feels. "Since you didn't wanna keep doing the band? I thought?"

"Oh! No," Patrick says. "I just. Needed some time to cool off. I'm not out forever, I just– it was too stressful to stick around just then. But thanks. I totally forgot about my drums. Thanks."

"So, you're not–?" Pete looks entirely too relieved for the situation, but Patrick rationalizes it as him not wanting to be out of a drummer so quickly. _Never mind that he could always make Andy drum for him, now that he knows,_ he thinks.

Pete continues,"I get it. I just thought, with the leaving," and then cuts himself off. 

“Yeah. You thought,” mutters Patrick. “You thought with the leaving and you thought with the singing. Maybe think a little less.” Again, cruel, but he’s tired.

“I’m–” Pete starts right away, then stops. “I’m trying, goddammit. But couldn’t you just consider it?”

What the _fuck._ “What part of ‘no’ don’t you get, asshole?” Patrick says, and at this point he’s done with logic and just wants Pete to stop.

“The part where your voice is fucking amazing! Excuse me for thinking you should actually do something with it, instead of hiding yourself away from the world because you’re too afraid or whatever,” Pete says animatedly. “It’s not worth it!”

“Not worth it for me, or for you?” Patrick demands. “You seem to think I’m your golden ticket to fame or something, but news flash, I’m my own goddamn person too. Maybe I really _should_ be out of the band for good. I’m done with this, Pete. I’ll get my drums tomorrow. Good night.”

Pete looks dumbstruck, and doesn’t say anything as Patrick steps back through the doorway.

“Shit, no, Patrick, _wait–”_ he says, and Patrick shuts the door in his face.

He turns around, feeling strangely empty. _Practice more, or just sleep?_

Patrick decides to go to bed. It’s late, anyways. He turns off all the lights and walks to his room upstairs, thoughts drifting. Why should this whole – _thing_ with Pete matter? He’s only known the guy for a week or so. It’s not like he’s going to miss his chance to _actually_ become famous. Like that could even happen. Why does it matter? Why does he even care?

* * *

Patrick wakes up, considers having a revelation, decides not to, rolls over and goes back to sleep. The next time he wakes up, the sun is glaring through his curtains and he can’t postpone the day any longer.

 _Well, shit,_ he thinks. Admitting to himself that he _likes_ Pete may not count as a sexuality crisis – he’s been noticing boys for years, he’s not that deep in denial – but it’s definitely a crisis of some kind.

“It’s not a goddamn crush,” he tells his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Just a really… unfortunate… badly timed infatuation. That will go away. Very soon.”

He manages to make it through the week without contact from Pete or even too much bother about the whole debacle from Joe, who brings his drums back that Sunday morning without spectacle.

(“I got the story from Andy, who got it from Pete. That was kind of a dick move, bro.”

“I know. But it’s done, so it’s not like it matters.”

“Woah, philosophical.”

“Sure, or maybe you’re just too dumb to recognize logic when you see it.”

“That was low, Patrick. I’m insulted.”)

On Wednesday, he starts to regret quitting. Joe has still been going to Pete’s house, although he says the band is on hold for now and he’s mostly been talking to Andy. Patrick misses the band, and, not that he’d tell anyone, Pete. He tries not to fantasize too much, but he’s a teenager in lo– _lust,_ so he deserves some slack.

On Friday, Joe announces that he’s been moping too much. Patrick thought he was being more subtle than that, but he can’t really argue.

“Andy got us invites to a party tomorrow night, so you’re coming, like it or not,” he says.

“You know you’re taking this way too seriously,” Patrick responds. “And is this actual invites, or just a general ‘there’s gonna be a party that you’ll be let into if you drop by’?”

“Okay, more of the second,” Joe says, “but Andy will be there too. And maybe some hot chicks or guys to help you get over Pete.”

_Fuck. Was he really being that obvious?_

“Yes, it’s that obvious,” says Joe. “If it helps any, Andy says Pete’s just as upset as you are. If not more, because you were the one who called it quits.”

Patrick is speechless for a moment, stammers out the beginnings of a couple aborted sentences more, and finally settles on: “Wait, is Pete gonna be at the party though?”

Joe tilts his head. “Beats me.”

“Is this some plot to get me and Pete in the same place together so we’ll talk?” Patrick asks. Some sort of plan by Joe and Andy is looking more and more likely each minute.

“No plot, Scout’s honor,” Joe says. “Just come to the party, alright? I’m trying to live my life and you’re over here like a stormcloud in every room you walk into.”

“Now who’s getting philosophical,” Patrick says. “But sure. I’ll come to your party. If it sucks, I’m out.”

“Fair enough,” Joe says.

* * *

Saturday is the day of the party. Patrick spends half of it hoping Joe will forget to make him go and the other half hoping he’ll actually meet someone there who’s interested in his dorky high-school self that will help him get over Pete.

 _Jesus, we weren’t even a thing and now I’m trying to get over him, I can’t believe this,_ Patrick thinks.

At six-thirty the doorbell rings and it’s Joe, as promised.

“Damn. I was hoping you’d forget,” Patrick quips as he climbs into the passenger seat of the car.

“No such luck, sorry,” Joe says. They pass the rest of the ride in relative silence, until Joe announces, “Okay, we’re here.”

They pile out of the car and into the house. The party is just getting into swing, with music blaring out of unseen speakers and rooms crowded with teenagers holding plastic cups and paper plates.

“I’m gonna go find Andy, you should stick around here and see if anyone catches your eye,” Joe shouts over the music.

“Sure, great plan,” Patrick shouts back, shoving as much sarcasm as he can into the words while still making them loud enough to be heard. As soon as Joe departs, he makes his way to a door on the opposite side of the room and and walks deeper into the house.

He’s been wandering for a while when Joe suddenly reappears and says, “Oh, there you are! I told you to stay put but this works too,” and he finds himself being manhandled down some hallways and into a bedroom.

“Shit, they got you too,” says a voice from the corner of the room, and of course it’s fucking Pete, _again._

“Did you know about this?” Patrick demands.

Pete raises his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender. “Not any more than you did. This is all on Andy and Joe, not my fault whatsoever.”

“Right,” Patrick says. “No plot my ass.” He tries the door. It refuses to budge.

“I think they’ve got it jammed with a doorstop,” Pete volunteers.

“Right,” Patrick says again. “So what do we do?”

“Talk it out,” Pete says with a shrug. “I’m assuming that Joe’s been telling you the same things Andy’s been telling me all week. That we need to talk, and you need to stop bringing everyone down like a cloud of darkness hovering in the room.”

“Yeah, that’s… kind of it exactly,” Patrick says.

They’re both distracted by a knock on the door, and then a piece of paper slides under it. Patrick walks over and picks it up. “Also Patrick’s got to agree to sing in the band,” he reads. “Fuck you, Joe!” he shouts through the door.

He’s answered by a snort of laughter but turns back to Pete instead. “So what do we do?” he says.

“Talk?” Pete suggests. “It didn’t work so well last time, but they’re not letting us out of here until we do, and I’d hate to overstay our welcome at the party.”

Right. The party. The party that’s still going on in the rest of the house. The party that Joe brought him to under the pretense of getting over Pete, which brings him right back to the reason they’re locked in this room.

“Well, if you wanna talk, you go first,” Patrick offers. Despite his best efforts, he’s still crushing on Pete, hard, and he’d rather know where he stands than go in blind on something like that.

“Okay,” Pete says. “You might wanna get comfortable. I can talk a lot.” Pete lies down across the foot of the bed and Patrick takes off his shoes, then sits cross-legged with his back to the headboard.

“Shoot,” he says.

“I don’t know how to put this, but I’m sorry. I should’ve gotten that you didn’t want to sing and just stopped pushing. Even if I don’t understand why you won’t,” Pete says.

Patrick suddenly feels bad for all the things he’s avoided feeling bad for in the past week. “Yeah, me too. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You didn’t deserve it. Me and my issues,” he says.

“Hey, I’ve got issues too,” Pete says. “Maybe if we try hard enough we could make them all cancel each other out,” and Patrick is taken aback once again.

He tries not to sound too exasperated, he really does. “See, it’s just– that,” he finishes lamely. “Why do you say stuff like that to me? Is it, like, your weird idea of flirting? Are you trying to say you trust me? Or is it just some kind of joke, oh hey let’s dump our issues on Patrick, I’m sure he’ll love that, it’ll be hilarious everyone.”

Pete rolls onto his stomach and turns his body until he’s facing Patrick. “It’s not a joke. I wouldn’t do something like that to you,” he says with utter sincerity. “And,” Pete pauses. “I get if you don’t actually feel the same way, but I do like you, in a crush kind of way, so it’s a bit of both of the first two.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. He blushes, then hides his face in his hands. “It’s just my luck to fall for the guy whose idea of flirting is opening up about his emotional baggage,” he groans to himself.

“No, it’s really okay, if you’re not interested,” Pete says. “You don’t have to, like, try to spare my feelings. It’s fine. I’m fine, either way.”

 _Wait, no, that’s not what I meant,_ Patrick thinks, and says. “I was just… overwhelmed. It’s a lot. I do like you. Like-like you. Romantically. Oh god, I’m so bad at this.”

Now it’s Pete’s turn to look surprised. “Really? You do? You’re not just…”

“No, I’m not just saying it for your sake, and I’m not gonna say it again either so if you really want to know just shut up and kiss me,” says Patrick quickly, and then he hides his face in his hands again.

“Hey, hey,” says Pete, crawling up to sit next to Patrick. “Hey. You alright?”

Patrick nods silently. Pete covers his hands with his own and slowly pulls them away from Patrick’s face, bringing them down to his sides. He’s sure he’s flame-red by now, but Pete doesn’t look mocking or amused. He just looks earnest.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks, and _god_ he’s hot.

“Yeah,” says Patrick, a little breathlessly, and that’s all it takes for Pete to close the gap between them. The kiss is short, and chaste, but Patrick comes away giddy and Pete looks like he feels the same.

They spend the next few minutes kissing, which evolves into making out (or “putting this bed to good use,” as Pete says), and eventually they lose track of time and the outside world.

“God, you’re so cute,” Pete murmurs, hands twining around the back of Patrick’s head, and then the moment is ruined by Joe and Andy smashing through the door.

“Congratulations!” shouts Joe, blowing on a party horn. “Andy brought cake!”

Pete and Patrick pull apart quickly and shoot twin dirty looks at the interlopers.

The cake is small, and probably vegan, knowing Andy, and “Congrats on the making up and getting together!” is written in blue cursive frosting across the top.

Andy somehow conjures a knife, some plastic forks, and four paper plates to serve the cake on, but before they can eat Joe jumps up. 

“Wait,” he says. “Patrick, are you gonna sing for the band? Andy will drum if you sing, that was one of the conditions I made Andy agree to. No cake until you agree to sing.”

Patrick rolls his eyes at Joe, and glances at Andy sympathetically. Then he looks at Pete, who gives him an encouraging nod.

“Sure, I’ll sing,” he says. “But only for the cake.” Joe cheers, and Andy hands him a slice. “But how did you set this whole thing up?” he asks.

“Oh, it was easy,” Joe says, preening. “I just told Andy that I had a plan to get you and Pete to stop moping about each other and maybe even actually get your shit together and _get_ together, but he had to do some stuff for me too. So you sing, which makes Pete happy, Andy drums, which makes you happy, and you and Pete stop arguing, which makes me and Andy happy. Everyone wins. Also there’s cake.”

“Wow,” says Patrick, at the end of the explanation. “Didn’t know you had it in you, to pull something like that.”

“What, like it’s hard?” Joe says, and they all dissolve into laughter.

“Is that still in theaters anywhere?” Pete asks the room. “Because I’ve got a new boyfriend and a lot of dates I haven’t taken him on.”

“Shut up,” says Patrick, trying to hide his blush and flicking a piece of fruit from the cake at Pete. “Take me out to dinner first.”

“Ooh, I will,” says Pete, “and that’s a promise. But let me finish my dessert first so I can move on to the main course. That’s you, Trick, by the way.”

“Shut up!” says Patrick, laughing along with the other two. “You’re not smooth, oh my god, I’m ending our relationship if you keep this up, I swear.”

Pete throws himself backwards, arms splayed out on the floor. “Oh, no, my heart, my love, how could you do this to me? Oh, I’m dying, and only a kiss from my one true love can save me. If he doesn’t dump me first, that is.”

“Well, if you’re dying…” Patrick says, then leans down to kiss Pete. When he tries to pull away, Pete yanks him back down and gives him a sultry look.

“Get a room, you two,” Andy says.

“We _have_ a room, we’re _in_ it, you guys invaded it, we were here first!” Pete defends.

“Alas,” Patrick says as he sits up, “I am now dating an actual five-year-old who thinks ‘we were here first’ is a valid argument.”

“Well, it could be worse,” says Pete from the floor. “We could be back where we were at the start of this, not knowing each other, or we could be back yesterday.”

“I’ll toast to that,” says Andy. “To not being the idiots we were in the past, and to hopefully be less idiotic in the future. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” the other three echo, raising their plates in the air.

“We may not be perfect, but we’re on our way there,” Pete adds. “To you and me,” he whispers to Patrick.

“To you and me,” Patrick whispers back.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed, comments & kudos are welcome ((please feed the writer, i literally live off of validation)), still not my fault.


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